


𝙸𝚗 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚛

by stopthat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boys Kissing, Complete, Declarations Of Love, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drunk Molly Hooper, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Meddling Molly Hooper, Molly Hooper is a Good Friend, New Year's Fluff, One Shot, POV John Watson, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopthat/pseuds/stopthat
Summary: Molly has something to say.  John listens.  (To Sherlock.)✦you took your sweet timefinally I opened my eyes
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 158





	𝙸𝚗 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚛

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, just some fluff. The very first thing I've (ever) written in third person. Also the first fic that didn't turn into a rambling saga. 
> 
> I realize that the whole New Years thing is played out, but this happened anyway, so I thought I'd share. Molly is a prominent character here, but fear not, this story is about John and Sherlock.
> 
> Title lifted and story vaguely inspired by [In the New Year](https://youtu.be/f2GzL7q6Wj0) by the Walkmen.

“Can I ask you something?” John tears his eyes guiltily from where they’ve been lingering across the room to meet Molly’s inquiring gaze. She’s snuck up on him—intentionally, no doubt—and he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what comes next. She’s got him cornered and undoubtedly wants to know if Lestrade has mentioned her tonight. She’s developed quite a crush, and John can’t help but be secretly relieved that her attentions have _(finally)_ shifted almost entirely away from Sherlock. But that’s—it’s not—anyway, she and Greg would make a nice pair.

“Ask away,” he smiles warmly, encouragingly. Greg _has_ mentioned her, not twenty minutes ago, and he’d be happy to give them a prod in the right direction.

“What’s stopping you? All these years—just—what’s stopping you, John?” Oh. _Really_ didn’t think that was the conversation he’d strode unhesitatingly into. Bit blindsided, to be perfectly honest.

“I—Molly—“

“Nine years,” she says. Loudly. Firmly. Accusatorily? John swallows around the unpleasant lump that’s forming in his throat. She’s attempted this conversation before—or some version of it, at least—rather recently. And he’d successfully dodged discussing it, because it’s _none of her bloody business._ “You’ve been a part of his life for _nine years._ And I’ve been watching you stare at him all night. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but—“

“Stop,” John blurts out, voice slightly raised and cracking pathetically. He clears his throat, lowering his tone. “Just stop. It isn’t—it’s not an option. All right? It’s not an option.” And it bloody well isn’t. Sherlock made that clear from the start, and it’s John’s own problem that everything he’d trained himself to push down, down, down and ignore for a damn _decade_ has been slowly rising to the surface over the past week. He doesn’t know what’s changed. Or he _does_ —he knows _exactly_ what triggered the sudden wave of immutable emotion—but he hasn’t quite faced it yet.

“But _why?”_ She’s unimpressed, determined to push this. God, he needs another drink. Draining the last dregs of his pint, John sets the glass on the bar, watching (stalling) as the barman slowly makes his way through the shouted orders of the cluster of Yarders gathered to his right. The man spots his empty glass, they exchange a nod and a fresh pint appears at John’s elbow. He turns back to Molly, who’s waiting expectantly for a response. He lets out a resigned sigh.

“Look,” What can he say, really? _Yes, Molly, I know. I know that we’ve lived in each others’ pockets for nearly a decade and yet I still haven’t managed to tell him what he is to me. I am aware that it’s beyond pathetic, but I am terrified of what I could lose. Because he isn’t like that. He doesn’t want that. Not with me or with anyone else. You, of all people, should know he isn’t interested._ “Married to his work,” he mumbles, instead. “He’s—that’s what he said. First day we ever met. As I said, not an option.” She glares back at him, all exasperated annoyance. 

“That is _outdated data,”_ she nearly hisses, swaying slightly as she leans forward to emphasize her point. She’s a bit more tipsy than he’d realized. Hardly a surprise, though—she was quite buzzed the last time she found the nerve to bring this up, just last week at the Yard Christmas party. Always so feisty when she’s a bit pissed. He stares back at her blankly, her words sinking in at last. 

“Ah—what?”

“John, are you _serious?”_ he glances around, a bit paranoid—expecting to see eyes on them, listening in on this rambling lecture. But no one is paying any attention. The bar is packed—it’s New Year’s Eve, after all—and really rather loud.

_“Shh,_ god, all right. What, then? What?”

“Everything he’s done for you—he’s spent _years_ of his life—“ She shakes her head, eyes drifting across the crowded bar to where Sherlock is leaning against the wall, tapping away at his mobile. John‘s own phone vibrates in his pocket. He reaches for it numbly, eyes snapping back to Molly as she continues to tell him what he already knows. “—and he came back to you—I know that he didn’t, he didn’t quite—he—“ she lets out a huff of breath, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment and shaking her head again. “—but he _waited_ for you, John. He’s still waiting. And what are you doing?” John is aware that his mouth is hanging open stupidly, brow pinched and eyes betraying precisely how irritated he is by this blunt outburst from his most timid friend. He _knows_ all of this. He bloody well knows. He gathers his wits enough to snap his mouth shut and take a deep breath, nostrils flaring—preparing to argue the point. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He is well aware of what Sherlock has done for him, knows how much the man has forgiven of him over the years, knows that he loves him, even, and Rosie too—but all that is beside the point.

“What would you have me do? I can’t force my affection on him, he doesn’t _want_ it,” and god, it hurts to say. But it’s the truth, isn’t it? The man doesn’t want romantic love. “He never has. He’s never—had—it. Never had anyone.”

“Until you, John. He has you. He’s in love with _you,”_ John’s traitorous heart leaps violently at her words, even as he rolls his eyes. Because he’s _not_ —he isn’t—“He _is_ ,” Molly insists, watching him closely. Too closely. John swallows. “And he does want it. You. Your affection. You idiot,” Her words have no bite, a small smile on her lips. John swallows again, his throat gone dry and his tongue devoid of words. He unlocks his phone, glances down, searching for a distraction—an escape from this deluge of emotional upheaval, but all he finds is a text from Sherlock.

_She isn’t wrong. SH_

John looks up quickly to find Sherlock watching him from his perch in the corner where he’d been dragged begrudgingly into chatting with Donovan and a few other officers about some case or other. John had slipped away to the bar. He’d only meant to take a few moments to mentally shake himself into remembering not to stare quite so longingly at the most observant man in London, but then Molly had appeared. He feels a bit wrong-footed now, watching Sherlock right back, mind frantically trying to catch up with this sudden onslaught of information—this sudden feeling of possibility. Hope. His mobile buzzes in his hand and he hesitantly tears his eyes from Sherlock’s to glance down at it.

_Don’t look so surprised. SH_

Of course the bastard can flawlessly execute a text message while maintaining eye contact. John shakes his head once, fumbles his mobile as he taps out a response.

_I suppose you can read our lips, then? Or perhaps our minds? Always suspected you had a sixth sense._

_Hardly. SH_

_Sherlock._

_Come here. SH_

John exhales slowly, not quite finding the nerve to meet Sherlock’s piercing gaze just yet. Fingers lightly squeeze his arm and he finds Molly in front of him—she’s been there the entire time, he supposes, though in the last few minutes his entire world has narrowed down to just one man in the room.

She doesn’t say anything more, just grips his arm for a moment and then walks away. He watches her stride down the bar toward Greg, who greets her enthusiastically and rests a hand on her back, easily welcoming her into the conversation.

Squaring his shoulders and readying himself to walk into uncharted waters, John turns at last to face the man who occupies his every thought—the beautiful, brilliant bastard who possesses half his heart and the boundless depths of his gratitude.

Sherlock is patiently waiting, curiously watching. Always observing. Weaving through clusters of strangers and acquaintances, John steps carefully into his orbit, heart racing dangerously, unsure and suddenly exhausted.

“Hi,” He breathes, the hesitant greeting lost in an abrupt boom of voices around them. _Ten, nine, eight—_ Sherlock reaches out and slowly pulls John toward him, immediately dropping his wrist and winding an arm around the small of his back. John lets himself collapse, leaning contentedly against his best friend’s chest, cheek to the skin of his throat. He slowly slides his own arms around Sherlock’s waist, attempting futilely to tune out the countdown around them. This moment is precious, and he intends to cherish it.

“Hello,” Sherlock rumbles, breath gently ruffling John’s hair. The crowd around them is shouting, cheering in a deafening roar. Must be midnight. He feels a light pressure on his temple and smiles to himself, wondering if Sherlock has succumbed to New Year’s tradition. John turns, tucking his nose into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, tightening his arms around the man—probably to the point of pain. He’s met with an equally desperate grip, the two of them clinging to one another in a silent declaration, the long-restrained warmth in John’s chest springing free and expanding wildly and irrevocably. 

Eventually, they both loosen their grasp and John takes a moment to swipe at his eyes.

“Christ,” He whispers. Sherlock lets out a shaky exhale, puffing his peppermint scented breath against John’s forehead.

“John,” He sighs, running his palms up and down his jumper. “Can we _please—”_ He traces the shell of an ear with the tip of his nose. “—get the hell out of here?” John snorts, well aware that Sherlock is only present at this party because he’d demanded it. Feeling nearly giddy, and more than a bit unsteady, he steps back, taking Sherlock’s hand and all but dragging him through the horde and out the door, snatching their coats from the rack on the way.

Once outside the warm cocoon of the pub however, John feels the giddy confidence begin to fade, bitten from his skin by the frigid January air. He stops on the pavement beneath the soft glow of a streetlight, turns to Sherlock, glancing up at him anxiously. The face that meets him is equally unsure—grey eyes searching his own for a clue about what comes next. John smiles, hesitantly.

“I didn’t know,” He breathes, a plume of fog slipping from his lips and disappearing into the air between them. “Sherlock, if I’d thought for a second that you—that we—things would have been—”

“Let’s not,” Sherlock interrupts, lifting shaking hands to either side of John’s jaw. “Soon we’ll—but can we just—” He dips his head, tentatively meeting John’s lips, clearly unsure of his welcome. John inhales sharply, momentarily stunned, then quickly pushes his fingers up into dark curls, urging him closer, pouring every drop of warmth bursting from his body into this unexpected and long-overdue connection.

The moment he gives himself over to it, he knows—knows that this is it, this is everything. The man holding his head in his hands, delicately tracing John’s lips with his own, is the great love of his life. _Even if we’d never gotten to this place,_ he thinks dazedly, pulling Sherlock closer still, _he’d be that._

This is the person who should have been the sole recipient of his affections since the day they stumbled into each others’ lives. Instead he’d been the target of John’s misguided rage, his literal punching bag and _still_ the one person who stuck around to pick up the pieces. John pulls back, gasping, quickly realizing it’s come out as a sob.

“Sorry,” He whispers, seeing the alarm on Sherlock’s cold-and-kiss-reddened features. “It’s—I’m—it’s relief,” John’s eyes drop shut, chest heaving as two thumbs gently glide over wet cheeks. “I’m relieved,” After a long moment of silence, he slowly opens his eyes, finding Sherlock studying him intently.

“You’re regretful,” He says, voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

“Well yeah, yeah a bit,” Sherlock swallows, turns his head, peering down the empty street as it begins to lightly snow. “Sherlock,” John says quickly, realizing that for all his brilliance, the idiot has misunderstood. “I regret that we didn’t find our way here _sooner._ I’ll always regret the things I’ve done—how I’ve treated you when it could have been this,” He tilts his head up and kisses him, soft and sure. Sherlock responds instantly, sliding his hands to the small of John’s back, pulling him in and wrapping him up. Sherlock kisses without inhibition—candid and honest and John could drown in it if he let himself— _“God,”_ He gasps when at last they break apart. “God, this is—”

“Quite,” Sherlock grins, panting lightly and looking like he can hardly believe his good fortune—grey eyes alight in way they've never quite been before. “Home, I think.”

“Suppose we owe Molly a thank you card,” John huffs as they begin to stroll through the empty streets of London toward Baker Street.

“Unnecessary. I believe her little outburst tonight was meant to be a thank you, of sorts,” Sherlock glances sideways, eyes searching. "Or perhaps retaliation."

“Going to elaborate?” John can only grin when Sherlock sighs.

“I—may have had a similarly meddlesome conversation with Lestrade at the Christmas party last weekend,” Another sideways glance. “After the mulled wine incident. You remember,” John laughs, lets himself really laugh for the first time in ages. He remembers. Of course he does. An overly intoxicated and uncharacteristically chatty Sherlock isn’t easy to forget. He’d clung to John for half the night, disappearing occasionally but always returning to fling an arm around his neck. 

He’d crawled into John’s bed that night, curling up quietly at his side and dragging every forbidden emotion that John had worked tirelessly to suppress to the surface, disappearing before morning, never to speak of it again. But John hadn’t forgotten. Couldn’t have if he’d tried. And now here they are.

“I am appallingly, obscenely in love with you,” John blurts out, giggling and thinking only of making up for lost time. “Have been for ages. All right?” Sherlock stops, turning to meet John’s eyes—throat bobbing, fingers tightening in a death grip where their hands are intertwined.

“Yes,” He rasps, clearing his throat and beginning to walk again. “All right.” John smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I wrote this to take a break from [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377241) story, which has gotten a bit intense and a bit plotty, so I hit pause until the world rights itself again. Or until I find a wave of angst to ride into the next chapter.
> 
> Comments are so appreciated. Feedback always welcome.


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